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When I start watching, there’s a C.C. Sabathia Pepsi commercial on. Pepsi, I am never drinking you again. Okay. So I don’t drink Pepsi. Or soda. But you know what? I’m double not drinking you now.

Nervous. Haven’t seen the score. Just want to watch Erik Bedard pitch. It is 8:11 p.m. How much damage can be done in an hour? Right. Right.

I like that you are French, Erik. If you are sucking, I plan to yell at you in French. Oh, look. The same bad screen problems.

Oh, Masterson. I loved you so.

I cannot see the score because of the split checkerboard screen. We must be winning.

3-2. Oh. 3-2.

I am so conflicted. Justin Masterson, I want you to do well, but I want my team to hit your balls. Oh, was that a look of recognition? Did you recognize me through my computer screen just then? We were something special, you and I, Justin. Remember the happy nights we spent together? While you pitched okay plus and I fantasized about your potential? In a few years, we said… in a few years…

Alas. Our love story was not to be. Like “Love Story” with Ryan O’Neal (or is it O’Niel?). Except instead of cancer, you got Cleveland.

Kevin Youkilis. Awkward. Two of my loves fighting, pitcher and batter. I am going to imagine they are fighting for me.

Youkilis is out. I am agape. It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.

Justin! That’s not the way to win my heart. No sir (she says as she shakes her fist at a Theo Epstein graphic. For me, I said, Theo! For me! Why couldn’t you have kept Justin Masterson for me?!).

—-

Strike out number four for Bedard. Okay. I like strike outs. I like how Jerry Remy pronounces your name. Be-dod.

I’m not sure what happened with the three runs. So I am withholding judgment. I was late because I was giving my dog a hair cut. She looks awful. I may take a picture and put it on here. I don’t know. She doesn’t want me to because she’s embarrassed and partially bald on one side.

Oops.

Strike out 5. Okay.

So. Um. From what I see, you’re okay.

So why the three runs again? Was it Lackey? Did you tag him in? Because I meant to warn you about that.

Ellsbury catches. Ends. Niceness.

But 3-2 Indians? What’s with that?

—-

Once again, someone asked me why I am in love with Kevin Youkilis.

It’s really not an easy question to answer.

But I will try.

Well, he’s affectionate.

He’s a hugger, Youkie is.

Oh, and he is a kickass baseball player.

Oh, and he gives me a secret signal. You wouldn’t understand. Ours is a spiritual plane kind of love.

—

Justin just struck out Ortiz. I think I have a corner tear. Oh. It’s from dog hair, wafting through the apartment. Next time I give you a haircut, Ellie, you will be outside.

Justin Masterson, can you come home? I will give you Jed Lowrie. And John Lackey, Cleveland. And, okay. You can have Bobby Jenks too. But only if you can get Justin to us by the 7th inning stretch.

Honestly, people. It’s so stressful watching a pitcher you do not know. Oh, and John Lackey.

Hey, you ended the pledge, buddy. I tried.

Hi, Erik.

I like you.

I do.

We’re going to be friends.

We will speak French to each other and say things with French accents. And you can braid my hair.

I think I love you. Enchanté.

Strike two. Full count. “Bedard has not walked anybody in the game tonight.”

He won’t start now. Not when I’ve just professed my optimism. He won’t…

Crawford running catches it. You knew he was going to do that, didn’t you Erik? Clever. Giving him a false sense of security like that. But see, Josh gives me a signal so I don’t have a heart attack. You should… you know what? You’ll learn. You’ll learn. De rien.

—

Hi, BH (see comments)! Glad to see you. Glad you didn’t miss the Reddick homer. Go away. And then come back. Maybe that is the key to our home runs tonight. Go! Hurry, so you can come back!

—-

Marco Scutaro. Oh, Bedard- à quoi bon? Seriously.

Out. Of course.

Oh, Heidi is talking about Jed Lowrie.

“I need to make sure that I’m healthy so I can help this team win.”

Hah. You. Healthy. Yeah. Okay.

Now he’s talking about in 2009 “playing through the pain.”

Really? When did you EVER play through the pain?

—-

Left Center…. can’t get it! Yess. Ellsbury gets to first. Sweet.

—–

Either of you guys interested in guest blogging? No?

—–

Ellsbury still at first. Pedroia sinks into an out. A stinky, stinky out.

I really hope I get to see at least ONE Stanks game this weekend…

Hi, Masterson. I mean Gonz! I mean Gonz!

So confuuuuuussseeed.

Justin. For old time’s sake. Could you…

No… I could never ask you to be what you’re not.

We live in two different worlds, Justin. It’s like in “The Last Unicorn.” You’re my Prince Lir. It’s very romantic in a mythical cartoony way.

A happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story.

Like the wind off the sea…

Justin Masterson. I just don’t know what to say.

Screw that.

My feelings can best be expressed by Idina Menzel.

Erik Bedard. You are kind of great. I say kind of, because, thanks to checkerboard MLB that I am paying $20 a month for, I can’t entirely tell.

But you seem swell.

My dog looks really horrible. I kind of feel bad. She’s being boarded for a few days starting tomorrow. All the other puppies might make fun of her.

Okay. I just got the memo that wasn’t you, Erik. That was Morales. Because I just saw through the checkboards. And NOW I AM ANGRY. YOU KNOW BETTER, Morales. YOU KNOW BETTER. This is YOUR fault. YOUR FAULT.

FIX ITFIXITNOW.

——

Make. It. Stop.

MAKEITSTOPNOW.

—–

Gatorade is a TERRIBLE drink.

—-

Alfredo Aceves. Ohmygod, Alfredo. Did you see what Morales tried to do to us? Did you see what Morales DID to us? Did you see? Ohmygod, Alfredo.

I ate your pasta today.

Okay. I didn’t. But I wanted too. I went to Which Wich again.

Oh, Alfredo. Fix this. And then go give Erik a hug. I don’t want him to think we do this to pitchers. I mean, you know we do this to pitchers. But I want him fooled. I don’t want him to think our bullpen hates our rotation. Okay?

Alfredo? You’re supposed to fix everything and then you were going to go tell John Lackey to stay off our Erik. You were going to do that intimidating snarl that you do. You know the one. No. Not that one. No. Not that one. Nope.

Oh good. Now the audio is checkerboarding. It’s like a Jerry Remy round. Seriously, MLB. I can’t believe I pay money for this.

But Justin, you’ve got to be more subtle. Belcher’s talking to him. Oh no! They’ve found us out! Quick! Alfredo! Cover Youk’s eyes!

—-

Oh, it must be dramatic. They’re playing previous clips like the Reddick homer. Oh no. I’m sorry I got us into this mess, Justin. Blame it on the ‘rade.

—-

Josh Reddick, aka Joshy-poo, is going to get a three run homer. He will. You’ll see. They’ll all see!

—-

In the air to left. Caught. Joshy-poo?

—

Two outs. But two on base.

Masterson is faced with a dilemma. Help the one that got away (that’s me) or save face with his buddies in Cleveland.

Ball two.

Jason Varitek.

Jassssooonnnnnn Varitek.

Foul. Two and Two.

Justin. Stand strong. Help a captain out. You knoooowwwww you want to.

Tek is like a FATHER to you. He’s like a FATHER to me. That makes us… um…

DAMNIT, Justin.

We’re over.

Again.

Stop calling me. Cleveland can have you.

—-

I didn’t mean it.

—

I did!

—

I like how the commercials come in crysssstttalllll clear.

—-

Anyone know any good knock-knock jokes? I heard this one today about Florida. But it wasn’t a knock-knock joke. It was something like a Canes fan, a Gator’s fan and… um… A Noles fan? Yes. They’re all on this roof, see, trying to show how great their fanship is, right? And the Noles fan jumps to show his devotion and says “This is for …” I can’t remember. But he says something dramatic, right? And then the Canes fan pushes the Gator’s fan off of the roof and says, “This is for the Canes!”

I know. I know I’m not supposed to drink Gatorade. It is not the drink of my people. But it is lemonlime. And at the corner market near my house.

—-

Pestano is warming up. For the best, I suppose.

—-

Is Miller really pitching?

FDA, I have loved Youkilis since he started playing. We got married in April of 2005. I am nothing if not faithful. And marital status does not matter to me in my baseball marriages.

—–

Oh no. Asdrubbbbbbbbbbbbubbbbbbbuubbbbuaaallllaaabear is about to bat. That’s his real name, you know.

Miller. What are you doing? Is this on purpose? Because you are not Erik Bedard. You do not get a free pass from me.

—–

Strikeeeee out. See? Snippy comments work. Good, Miller. Gooooood.

—-

And FDA- I LOVE Youkilis. I LIKE Chinese food.

—-

On the other side of the planet. Um. Internet. Jeb just said the Pirates are losing.

—-

I don’t think Andrew Miller has seen “Wicked.” If he had, he would be inspired. Because everyone in all of Oz, all Wizards that there are or were are totally going to briiiiiingggggg himmmmm dowwwwnnnnnn…

Okay. I’m done. With the typing. Not the singing.

My dog just went upstairs.

Hmmm.

—-

No. No. No. NO.

Cabrera, aka Asdrublahavomitabeaaaarrrr, scored.

—-

I do not know what the score is. Because of the checkerboards. Okay. I do know what the score is. But I’m not typing it. That makes it real. And this? This isn’t real. This isn’t reality. There are too many walls. That’s deep. Deep. Like this Gatorade. They give you a lot for six dollars.

The game that one day when we weren’t losing

by Lauren

One day there was this game.

It was at Fenway Park.

There were these Red Sox. And they hit lots of home runs. But not normal home runs. Magical home runs. That hit irritating people in the stands and made them fall off Fenway Park. No one died or anything. But this girl with the spikey hair who cut off Lauren on King Street today? She got hurt.

Oh, and Kevin Youkilis got four grand slams. And that was only part of the 87-1 score. Justin Masterson cried a lot. And said, “Whyyyyy? Whyyyyy?” And Theo Epstein (he was wearing this hat. It was a big hat) looked upon him and said, “Boy? Why are you crying?”

And Justin said, “Because no one loves me and I suck now in Cleveland. And my only friend is Drew Carey.”

And, since the thimble didn’t make him feel better, Theo decided to take him away to a magical land on the other side of the stadium.

“Come with us, Justin,” he said. “You will never be sad again. And we’ll let you grow your hair out so you don’t look so awkwardly bald.”

“But, Theo?! However will I escape?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

And, with Youkilis’ help, Theo threw John Lackey and Jed Lowrie (whose injury made him bouncy) and Marco Scutaro at Cleveland and they stuck like double sided tape. And we got this amazing new short stop. Named. Um. Greg. His name was Greg. And he had many home runs.

And The Red Sox Won.

The end.

—-

I am really talented.

I understand why no one wants to guest blog. But if none of you volunteer, I am going to call Jeb again.

—-

Bottom of the 7th. 9:42. Ohno. If the Yankees win (and they are winning) and we lose (and we are losing), we would be tied.

OHNO.

Dustin Pedroia, I hope you heard that. Swing and a miss makes quick work of Pedroia? Stop it! Stop making quick work of yourself!

—-

Clearly your laundry is cursed, BH. Hurry! Roll it around in grass or something!

—-

Adrian Gonzalez. You should do something. Like. Um. Score. Like hit a two-run homer and let the crowd cheer. “Adrian!” They’ll chant! “Adrian!” And then they’ll throw crepe paper and streamers and candy and everyone will be happy again and… Gonz chops it toward the shortstop. And Cabrera ends the inning. Didn’t you like my scenario better?

—-

BH, did I tell you that awhile back you were comment 1,000? You win a prize but I have not drawn it yet. It is something you can look forward to.

—-

If I do not have a guest blogger, my blog will be blogless for days! For days!

—-

I would like seven guest bloggers. SEVEN.

—

It may not be today. But some day, Cleveland. This day you will rue!

Rue is the name of the kid in the “Hunger Games” books. Not the big kid. The little kid. Great books. A lot like the Red Sox, really. You would like them, FDA. They are violent.

—

Heidi is telling everyone to donate canned food. I would love to. But see, I can’t. Because no one loves me enough to take me to the games.

—-

6-3. Still. Top of the 8th. Tony fricking Sipp is warming up. I HATE that guy. I think it’s because of the necessary “p” in his name. I’m not a fan of most verbs as names. I am not fooled by the extra letter.

Jacoby makes a running catch. And you are out.

Lalalalalalalalala.

Gatoraaaaaade.

—

Yeah? Well at least my team name’s not racist.

You heard me.

No. Cleveland isn’t so bad. Blogger friend Bheise is just swell and dandy.

But you, weird fan at Fenway, you are not swell or dandy. And I saw that finger. I saw it.

I met a guy today in a Red Sox hat who told me he was a Twins fan.

Yeah. That’s the expression I had too.

I am going to start an anti-spitting campaign.

“The spitting starts with you,” it will say. And it will show a little meek child with a quivering lip. And then it will say:

“Spitting means no Santa Clause.”

Yikes.

Hit by a pitch. Yikes.

Yeah. Let’s not do that again. Two on. Yeah. I’m not happy about that one…

—-

Strike out. Two down. But see, two on. And that’s what I’m not liking, Curt Young.

—

Yes. All of you should e-mail me your guest blogs- ohnolauren@gmail.com.

COMEON. First and third. Distress. Ball. Hit. Foul. Youkie hits the photogs. I’d rather you hit the ball.

—-

Theo, this really is your fault, you know.

—

Ball off the wall. Double. 7-3 now.

Theo, are you happy?

Yeah, go to the pen. GO.

—-

You know what other musical I like (and it so counts even though it is just internet)? Dr. Horrible’s Sing Along Blog. It is on Netflicks too. Check it out.

—

Dan Wheeler. He has a Lackeyesque quality to him today. I don’t know what it is…

Matt LaPorta. Please make Matt LaPorta sit down.

—-

Two outs. COMEON.

Seriously, Theo. If you had kept Justin Masterson, none of this would have ever happened. And, with the Butterfly Effect, who knows what other wonders might have ensued? I might have a pony AND a boat by now.

YOUR FAULT.

Gatorade.

—

I liked Tonya Harding. You know. Before she went crazy. I wasn’t really a Nancy Kerrigan fan. I LOVED Katerina Witt. Remember her? I wanted to be her when I grew up. But I decided to eat.

—-

Crawford catches it. The inning fah-fricking-finally ends. And Josh Reddick is up next. It’s just BOTTOM OF THE NINTH. No pressure.

—

Your pitcher looks like a classier Johnny Damon.

And catch. One out.

Seriously, Erik. Please do not think this is something we do all the time. Please do not think this is acceptable here. This game is not your fault, Erik. This game is Theo’s fault. This game is an opportunity for me to scream “I told you so,” after telling him so when he fricking ripped Masterson away.

Tek to right field. Caught.

Out.

Two outs.

That’s okay. There are three of them, the outs.

—-

OHNO.

It’s Marco Scutaro. The man who is SWELL at being the last out. SWELL.

—-

Who doesn’t like Dr. Horrible? Clearly Bad Horse has Scut on his side.

STOP ALIGNING YOURSELF WITH THE THOROUGHBRED OF SIN!

Justin Masterson, I do not know what to say to you. I just don’t.

Scutaro. I know exactly what to say to you. But I’ll say it French. That way, Erik and I can have a secret.

4:23. At work. Explaining to someone the tradition that is Tim Wakefield.

So, betting time. I’ve got all my imaginary money on a win. That’s approximately 127,450 imaginary dollars. Imaginary dollars that I was saving for my imaginary boat and my imaginary high-interest mutual fund. It’s all I have left after purchasing my imaginary island last week with my imaginary savings. If I lose it, I’ll be marooned.

What do you think, Soxies? Is today the day that Father Time… um… Father Tim will deliver double hundreds?

See you in a few hours!

—-

6:15. Getting off work. Step closer to being able to watch entirety of actual game…

This is frustrating already. two outs. Sorry, Pedroia. I thought it was a homer too.

Gonz has an extremely dramatic single. Jacoby would have made that a triple. But whatever. The crowd goes silent as Youkie steps up to the plate. Okay. I may have assisted with the mute button on my computer…

Thank you. With that complete and utter fail, Cleveland, you stopped. And helped my husband have one hell of a double. Okay, sound. You can come back again.

Papi at the plate. This MLB feed is really going to annoy me. I can tell. Base hit! Youkie! Gonz! 2-0 lead. 2-0. I like how this is going. Yes. Go team 200. That’s what I will call you all today. Team 200. Do it for Wake. Do it.

Carl Crawford, buddy, pal, friend, let’s widen the cushion, shall we? Let’s spread out that cushion like a picnic blanket. Like throat coating cough syrup. Like… like a home run.

Out. Okay. Um. First inning. Two runs. Okay.

—

Top of the second. 7:29. Travis Hafner. at the plate. Strike two.

Youkie in the shortstop spot (????) throws him out.

K.

Carlos Santana who has shifted from catcher to first base? What a weird game.

Okay, announcers. I don’t want to know how well the batters hit against Timmy. This is not helpful information for my pro-200 mindset. You will go on mute again. Mute, I say.

Steeeerike. First K of the night.

Knucklin’. Knucklin’ your way to 200. Knuckleballs look so silly. I wonder how they look coming at your face. Judging from the confuzzled expression on Konerko’s face, not pleasant.

Throws it in the dirt again.

Um. Let’s not do that.

Tim turned 45 yesterday? Why didn’t I know that? I would have thrown a party.

A-Gonz shoves in the out.

Sweetness.

—

7:35. I am so tired, guys.

Bottom of the second.

Not. A. Good. Sign for my awakeness…

Cleveland, I’m sorry your pitcher lost his last five starts. Really. And I’m sorry that tomorrow it will be six. Heidi Watney, I really don’t care about this. Thanks.

Reddick. Base hit. At the wall. Dramatic single. One out. But Joshy on first.

That ball almost hit Baltimore… wayyyyyy on the bottom of the wall list.

Marco Scutaro kind of looks like this guy I went out with this this one time. Not sure why I’ve never noticed that… my, what an awkward memory.

Good swing by Marco Scutaro? Um, Remy, a good swing is going to be when it’s out of the park and we’re two runs scarier.

Full count for Scut. See, I’m not worried- because Jacoby’s up next.

Fly to center… catch. Out.

Whatever, let’s see you, Jacoby.

Ball one. Okay. We can walk there. That’s fine. My computer keeps freezing on ridiculous expressions in the audience. Like this guy in a pink plaid shirt with his mouth open. He is clearly a Cleveland fan.

No offense, Bheise. You would NEVER wear that shirt.

In the air to right. Makes the catch. Ends the second. Okay. That’s fine.

—–

0-2. Top of the third. Tim Wakefield is about to be a badass. You’ll see.

Any minute now.

Pop out. Jacoby’s all over it.

Any minute now.

He just smirked. Was that a badass smirk?

Yes. Yes it was. Second strike out for Tim Wakefield.

That’s KK, for those of you paying attention at home.

Two outs.

Ground ball. Easy out.

And then Scutaro kicks it.

Scutaro kicks it?

Scutaro kicks it.

SCUTARO!

Bunt. Out at first.

Okay. Scut… you better go shake Gonz’ hand.

—-

Up the middle, base hit for Pedroia… our 5th hit of the night, by the by… on a new 5 game hit streak… Okay.

25 game streak broken by the White Sox. That one hurt.

Gonz tries the bunt. Not so much with the success.

Pedroia tagged out. Pedroia!

“That’s a helpless feeling for a baserunner, when you take off too soon,” announcer said.

Caught stealing. Bah.

Gonz grounds into the shift. Obvious out- but he runs for THAT one, notice.

Shut up, Heidi! Youkilis is batting.

Ball and a strike. I just love the Youk chant. It’s like a moan, really. Ball and two strikes. Two outs. Come on, baby. I believe in you. Want me to clap? I’ll clap. I can do that. Hell, it worked in Peter Pan.

Damn.

Clearly, you are not Peter Pan. End of inning.

—-

39 pitches for you, Timmy. 40th… a strike. And a fast ball.

Home run.

DAMN.

Okay, Timmy.

Okay. Breathe. 200. 200. Just repeat that. You know. 200 times.

Hopefully this won’t take 200 tries.

Zeeeeerooooo outs.

Chop.

Ball bounces. Ridiculously.

Clearly witchcraft. 2-2. Tie game.

Yeah, Salty. I think you SHOULD talk to Tim Wakefield. Maybe you should talk to him longer. NO outs. 2-2. 8:05 p.m.

See, apparently, if you whine enough, you get to play. Gregg and Gonzalez get to play until their appeals are heard. Their whining, you see, has already been heard. A lot. Like a firetruck siren. Ohmyfrickinggod. Oh good. He’s not done.

Mad about it? Like how Ortiz reacted? Remember how aghast you were at that? I do. I blogged about it.

Ohmygod just pop an anxiety pill already, okay? Stop ruffling your tail feathers. You are an insult to birds.

I am so tired of writing about whining and bitchiness. I feel like I’m writing a gossip column for the barbie pepsquad at a middle school. Jesus, Bucky. I knew you were irritating, but I had no idea your salty tears would flood the world.

But let’s not worry about that today. Let’s not… damn it. Let’s distract ourselves with THIS neat article on players on the cheap. Like Salty… and THIS article on how awesome we are…

L

PS- Super important decision to make. How exactly should I vandalize Jeff-the-Tigers-fan’s cubicle Monday? I was thinking real brooms, but I don’t know if that’s dramatic enough. I might paper his desk in pictures of brooms. I don’t know. But I feel like my conscience is telling me it should involve brooms…

Oh! And Bard has an excuse for sucking lately! (kinda) Wait, when was that sucky game? So, spread the word if you’re in the DC area.

And, by the way, as of 10 a.m., our 4-streak is tied with Arizona as the number one streak in baseball…

So, imagine that’s tacked onto the headline for this piece. And yes, if you’re feeling nostalgic, click on some of those links.

I think the following commercial fits recent Sox activities to a tee. Ahem:

See, Detroit? You’re the kid. And that VW symbol? It’s really a B. And Cleveland, you’re the adult guy at the end. And Jorge Posada, I’m sorry but every blog post is NOT ABOUT YOU!

So yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Tigers were, no doubt, losers. But the real losers this week? Not Detroit. No, not even Cleveland. The REAL losers were sports commentators and bloggers who were making fun of us in April.

And Buck Showalter.

Oh-oh-oh- and Jorge Posada.

And Johnny Damon!

And Dominique Strauss-Kahn!

Wait… what were we talking about again?

Right. The Red Sox.

Go us! The Yankees play at 10:10. Stupid west coast games. Say they manage to lose…

First alone, baby.

So, kiddies, stay up late for me and cheer on our Washington brethren, okay? Because I have to get up at 5 a.m. to shoot a Memorial Day ceremony.

Oh, and could someone ask the rain to stop? Because I want to wear a sundress. Thanks.

Guys-guys-guys! For the next few minutes at least… we’re tied for FIRST in the ALE! FIRST! And we have 27 wins to the Yankees’ (as of 3:29 p.m. est) 26!!!!!!! Quick! Somebody take a screen shot!

Would it be politically insensitive of me to make a white man small pox joke? Probably, so I’ll refrain. But there was some mad Indian stomping with highlights too numerous to list during the work day.

A THREE RUN homer by Salty. Stellar defense by Lester. 14 runs to their 2. 20 hits to their 7. Sutton has 3 hits. David Ortiz. Doing what Papi does.

Score. Score. Score. Plus 11.

It was a lovely, lovely day to be a fan of the hottest team in baseball.

Soooooooo… instead of pointless analysis, let’s pump up our egos further, shall we? My southernism experiment went so well… let’s do it again. But, instead of talking about how Bard poo-pooed on our parade, let’s pep it up. Like, why Jon Lester, I do declare, you done delivah-ed a sermon on the mound.